


watered to survive

by MissFaber



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Halloween, I ACTUALLY WROTE SOMETHING LIGHT AND UNCOMPLICATED AND NOT-ANGSTY, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark Are Not Related, Jon Snow and the Starks Are Not Related, Love Confessions, Pining, and my random rarepairs, background alys x lyanna, background alysanna, background brienne x margaery, bc nurse sansa unwinds there after her shifts hehe, halloween fic, halloween party fic, jon is a teacher who Very Wisely does most of his work at a BAR, jon punches joffrey, just a lil halloween party sexy times between two Good Friends who stop being idiots, minor joffrey x sansa, you know i always gotta feature my lezzies <3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:21:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27017239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFaber/pseuds/MissFaber
Summary: Sansa Stark, also known as the only thought he's had for the better part of a year, isfinallysingle. Just in time for Halloween.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 71
Kudos: 173





	1. good fucking riddance

**Author's Note:**

> [check out the photoset for this fic!](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/632006095055011840/watered-to-survive-chapter-1-a-jonsa-halloweenh)
> 
> You may think I'm posting a new fic, but this is in fact an OLD fic, so hah! I wrote this last year around this time as one of my contenders for my jonsa halloween fic. I ultimately decided to post something [more complex](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20928707/chapters/49755239) (as this is just an elaborate setup for some holiday porn). But I had this more or less done and decided to post.

If he wasn’t so attuned to her voice, Jon didn’t think he would have heard her from all the way across the bar, through the music and laughter and the low hum of conversation. But as it was, Jon had spent the last year deeply in love with Sansa Stark and deeply in denial about it, and this state of things manifested itself in strange ways, such as being able to pick up on her regardless of whatever else was happening around him.

“That’s _my_ decision, and I think…”

The rest of her sentence was swallowed up by a round of applause as the group onstage wrapped up a song. It was open mic night. Jon stood up, his papers forgotten on the far end of the bar, his head swiveling as he tried to find a glimpse of Sansa’s fire-red hair.

“I don’t believe you, Joffrey!”

So she was with Joffrey, and she sounded angry. Jon swallowed as he strode purposely towards the southeast end of the bar, when he thought he heard her voice from. _Joffrey._ The undeserving boyfriend with the wandering eyes.

As he grew closer he heard her name on a raised, male voice, high pitched with anger. “… _Sansa,_ believin’ everythin’ you hear.”

“I believe her. Why would she lie?”

“To break us up! What the fuck do you think?”

Jon sped up, needing to see Sansa’s face, needing to make sure she was alright. Needing to bash Joffrey’s face in for talking to her that way.

“I don’t believe you. I don’t trust you.”

“But you trust _her?_ Some slut you barely know? You’re still a naïve little girl. _Stupid_ as the day I met you.”

“I’m not stupid, Joffrey! Stop saying that! I won’t take it anymore!”

Finally, Jon saw her . She stood tall in the face of Joffrey’s abuse, although her chin was quivering and there was a gleam in her eye that might have been more than the lights. A little crowd had formed around them, though none of the cowards had intervened on Sansa’s behalf. 

In two strides Jon was at her side. “Are you okay?” he asked in a low but urgent voice, ignoring everyone else for a moment.

Her mouth had opened in surprise when she saw him, but she quickly recovered. She nodded, although the stitch of her brows implied she wasn’t so sure about it.

“Go away, Jon. This ain’t none of your business.”

Joffrey’s southern accent seemed to slip out of him the further he lost control. Jon huffed through his nose, aware of his hands curling into fists as he struggled to maintain his own control. Jon knew Joffrey well; it didn’t take much to know a superficial prick. Joffrey was at the bar a few nights a month, when he bothered to accompany his girlfriend. Jon had been coming to the bar regularly ever since he moved to town. It was down the street from his house, it was better than grading papers in front of the TV, and the habit had become a difficult one to break. Especially when he met Sansa, the nurse who liked to unwind here on her nights off, and the bar owner’s best friend.

But she was with Joffrey. That’s what he tried to remind himself of now; _she’s with Joffrey._

Except, it looked like she was finally dumping him. 

“I think you should leave.” There was no doubt in anyone’s mind who Jon was talking to as he glared at Joffrey, discreetly moving his body to the right to place himself between him and Sansa.

Joffrey scoffed. “You’re kidding. She’s _my_ girl.”

“I’m not your _anything_ anymore, Joffrey.” Sansa spoke up from behind Jon. “I told you. It’s over.”

“This is bullshit!” Joffrey stepped forward and gesticulated wildly between them. Jon placed himself more firmly in front of Sansa so he was covering her body with his. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing? You think I haven’t _seen_ the way you look at her…” Joffrey gasped, rounding in on Sansa again, and Jon jerked to the right to block his advance. “Is that what this is? You been screwing Snow?”

“Stop it, Joffrey.” Sansa’s voice sounded wet with tears. Jon’s instinct was to turn and look at her, comfort her. But he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t take his eyes off Joffrey until he was no longer a danger to Sansa.

“You’re _fucking_ him!” Joffrey sounded feral, growling. “So you’re projecting, accusing _me_ of cheating—”

Joffrey lunged for Sansa, but Jon was quicker. He grabbed Joffrey’s arm before it could reach her and twisted it behind his back.

“You’re out of here,” Jon hissed as he pushed Joffrey towards the exit. “And if you ever come near Sansa again, you’ll regret it.”

“I’ll fuck you up,” Joffrey retorted, spit flying from his mouth. Jon doubted it. Joffrey was taller but thinner; Jon had no less than fifty pounds of pure muscle on him. 

Brienne, the owner of the bar, was suddenly blocking their way, cool eyes regarding them both. “Is there a problem here?”

“No problem, Brienne.” Sansa was suddenly beside them, too, flushed with embarrassment to the roots of her hair. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Jon said. Then, to Brienne, “Joffrey was giving her trouble.”

Brienne’s gaze snapped to him. “Out of here, Joffrey. Don’t come back. Right to refuse service.”

“You’re kidding! Seriously, Brienne? You’re taking _his_ side over mine?”

“I’m taking Sansa’s side,” Brienne replied simply. _“Don’t come back.”_

Now that he had Brienne’s permission Jon let himself push Joffrey a bit more roughly than he needed to. But Joffrey started struggling anew as they reached the door, squirming to free himself from Jon’s hold, looking back at where Sansa stood. “You’re coming with me, Sansa, we are _not done_ talking about this—”

“What did I say?” Jon’s voice was low, more venomous than he’d ever heard it. He supposed Sansa brought out that side of him. “Don’t fucking talk to her like that. Don’t even look at her. You’re _done.”_

“You’re crazy. You’re fucking nuts. If you think I’m going to let you do this to us—”

 _You did this all on your own._ But the asshole didn’t deserve a response. Jon cut off the rest of his sentence as he pushed the door of the bar open with Joffrey’s body, then released him with a hard shove. When the door slammed shut behind him, Jon released a heavy breath he’d been holding for months.

Moving on instinct, his feet took him to Sansa. She was standing with Brienne, undoubtedly preoccupied with filling in her friend on what had happened between her and Joffrey. Jon was a bit curious, too, but that could wait. Suddenly it felt like they had all the time in the world.

Her eyes flickered to him when he was near. They widened. She said something to Brienne and stepped towards him.

“Sansa, are you okay?”

She nodded, chin quivering again and eyes going soft—the only warning he had before she leapt into his arms. Jon had only a second to react, his arms opening automatically to welcome her, the breath knocked out of him despite her slighter frame. He’d never held her this closely before, and he acutely felt what he’d been missing—softness, the vice grip of her arms around his neck, the overwhelming scent of her, something fresh and citrusy.

When she pulled away, much too soon, he saw that her eyes were most definitely shiny with tears.

“Hey.” He wouldn’t be able to bear it if she started to cry. Not over that worthless asshole. He would listen to her rant and rave and cry for hours if she wanted, but he knew Sansa; she didn’t like public scenes. She was probably mortified over everything that had happened already—he knew she didn’t want to add a public meltdown to the list. So his mind searched frantically for something to cheer her up.

“I can’t believe he’s a therapist.”

It was stupid, but it seemed to do the trick. Her beautiful face cracked into a wide grin.

 _“Psychiatrist,”_ Sansa corrected in a perfect mockery of Joffrey’s voice, and they both burst out laughing.


	2. last call

Sansa was having a perfectly ordinary day until the messages came in.

It wasn’t a perfect day, but it was ordinary. She was working a double, and sixteen hours in an Emergency Room was no cake walk. She was on her third coffee in six hours and she wasn’t even halfway done. She and Joffrey were fighting, but that was ordinary too. A part of her knew she deserved better than Joffrey, with his complete lack of effort and constant undermining. But a much bigger part of her was afraid that such a man didn’t exist.

But of course, there was her dear, _amazing_ friend from the bar— Jon Snow. He was the kind of man her romantic, yearning heart had imagined as a child. It was the sweet way he talked about his family and his students. It was the small chivalrous gestures he always insisted on making, pulling open doors and pulling back chairs. It was the way Brienne had warmed to him, even if she’d never show it, unlike insensitive Joffrey who sometimes made Brienne uncomfortable with thoughtless or even offensive comments. He was unfailingly polite but alluring, honest and _good_ and so undeniably sexy. But even thinking of Jon made her feel guilty, like she was cheating on Joffrey somehow. Which she would never, _ever_ do. And neither would Jon—Sansa knew this with certainty. He was just too good of a guy to ever compromise her that way.

She was gulping down her lukewarm coffee, scrolling through social media on her phone and trying not to think of Jon—she was going to the bar tonight, even though she’d most likely be dead on her feet, and thoughts of Jon were always most potent on the days she knew she’d see him—when she saw the direct messages.

A gut punch. A sickening lurch that left her dizzy and nauseous. Sansa read the messages again and again until she had them memorized, seeing them in her mind’s eye as she blearily worked the remainder of her shift.

_I’m so stupid. I should have known._

The first thing she did at the bar that night was confront Joffrey.

A part of her had hoped he’d admit it and they could have a somewhat productive conversation, _some kind_ of resolution to their relationship. Maybe he would tell her _why_ he’d cheated. In hindsight, she knew it wouldn’t have mattered, that any reason he would have given her would have been selfish inexcusable bullshit, if not a total lie.

But of course he’d denied it.

He’d gotten angrier, louder, and nastier the longer Sansa stood her ground. She started to feel a dreadful mixture of anger and embarrassment; embarrassment at all the people looking at them, and anger that it was _he_ who got to rage and let it all out when _she_ was the one who deserved to act that way. _He cheated on me, for god’s sake!_

She couldn’t believe it, at first, when she saw Jon’s dark frame in her peripheral vision. Her first thought, assaulting her so strongly her knees felt weak with relief, was _thank god._

Though she was still shaking from the confrontation that wasn’t yet over, she felt steeped in calmness at the sight of him. All her hectic, confused, and hurt feelings faded into the background. _Jon’s here. I’m safe._

Jon hadn’t disappointed her. In fact, he went above and beyond, immediately shielding her from Joffrey with his body, demanding that he leave… and when Joffrey had absolutely _lost it_ and lunged for her, Jon was there to protect her.

Because of Jon, Joffrey hadn’t gotten the chance to grab her, to hurt her, or whatever it was he intended to do. She shuddered just thinking about it. He would _never_ get that chance.

“You sure you’re alright, Sansa?”

It was Jon, peering at her with concern over the drinks Brienne had made for them after the whole ordeal.

She took a deep breath. “I’m okay. I was just thinking… if you hadn’t been there…”

“Brienne would have beat the shit out of him.”

She laughed again, startled at how easily he pulled them out of her. Even on a night like tonight. _This is how it should be._ The thought came to her, unbidden but powerful.

“I’m glad I was here,” Jon responded again, quiet and grave this time, no laughter in his tone. “I held my tongue on Joffrey before, out of respect for you, Sansa, but let me say this now… he’s worse than just an asshole, which is what I thought he was before tonight.” The words left him in an angry rush, then Jon took a calming breath before speaking again. “Any man who’d even _think_ about laying a hand on a woman is a monster.”

“I agree completely.” Just the knowledge that Joffrey had it in him, and that she’d dated him for so long, turned her stomach.

“Sansa…” The way Jon said her name made her look at him, alarmed. His dark, soulful eyes were full of pain. His mouth was slightly open; he seemed hesitant.

“What is it, Jon?”

“I don’t… I don’t really know how to ask.” 

Then Sansa understood, knew exactly where his mind had taken him, and she decided to put him out of his misery.

“He’s never done anything like that before. He never… hit me or anything.”

Jon exhaled loudly, his tense body seeming to deflate. “He never hurt you?”

“No.” _Not physically._ “Just an asshole, as you put it. And a cheater.”

Jon’s mouth twisted wryly; his fingers clenched around his glass. “I’m sorry, Sansa.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t the first time.” The realization had come to her sometime between hours thirteen and fifteen of her never ending, miserable workday—that there must have been other women. _No one gets caught the first time._ Her mother’s words, and they held a world of truth.

“He didn’t deserve you.” Jon’s eyes burned with conviction, burned like coal. “He didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you.”

His passionate words made something quiver with delight inside her, but something deeper clenched painfully as well. She ducked her head, feeling another bout of tears come on, reluctant to let Jon see.

“Why did I try so long, to make it work?”

“Because you’re like me.” The answer came so swiftly, so easily and so unlike what she expected to hear that she jerked her gaze back up to look at him. He was smiling softly at her. “You believe in love, but you’re realistic too. You believe in trying. Nothing can last, not if you don’t put in the effort, no matter how good it is.”

Sansa blinked. She’d never felt so _seen,_ so understood. “I read it somewhere once… that love is like a plant. It needs to be watered to survive.”

“You see the problem, though, Sansa?” He leaned in towards her, and Sansa caught a whiff of him, pencil shavings and a warm aftershave. _“Both_ people have to water the plant. It isn’t good enough, one person putting in all the effort. You can’t do that anymore, put in all the effort and hope to get just a cut of it back.”

He was looking at her like his life depended on what he was saying, like it wasn’t _her_ messed up love life they were talking about. _Does he really care so much about me?_ The sensation felt foreign, after Joffrey’s apathy.

“Do you have a story like that?” She needed to direct the focus away from her before he said more heartbreakingly lovely things. “Where you were the only one watering the plant?”

“Yeah. But it’s in the past.” Jon looked down at his lap before meeting her gaze again with a wry smile. “I thought she loved me, but in the end I wasn’t enough for her. That became very clear.”

 _I can relate._ She surprised herself by placing a hand over Jon’s where it lay on the bar. By the way his eyes snapped to hers, he was shocked, too.

“You deserve better, too.” A fervor shone through her words. _Good;_ he deserved it. “You’re an… _incredible_ person, I’ve thought so ever since I met you.”

“You have?” His eyes twinkled, but Sansa didn’t let the situation dissolve into teasing or something dismissive. She answered him straightforwardly, passionately.

 _“Yes._ You’re patient and goodhearted and—” She cut herself off with a sharp breath before she could say the last word; _handsome._ She blushed.

“Jon, the way you helped me tonight…” Sansa shook her head. “Any woman would be lucky to have you, but you deserve the best woman. One who looks at you and sees her whole world.”

Jon blinked at her, his dark eyes bottomless and inscrutable. Sansa shifted on her barstool, a bit uncomfortable in the vulnerable space after her declaration when moment after moment passed without a response.

Then he uncurled the hand that wasn’t under hers from around his glass and reached for her. Although the stretching of any man’s hand towards her in such a way would indicate a kiss, Sansa wasn’t afraid. She welcomed it. Her stomach coiled tight in anticipation. Her thighs pushed together.

But Jon’s hand settled on her cheek, fingers stretched into her hair, and didn’t pull her toward him. He stayed still there, hand cold against her suddenly fevered skin.

“You’re the most… the _most_ … Sansa, there isn’t a word to describe you.” Jon ducked his head for a moment, a hint of rosiness touching the skin above his beard. “Stunning, wonderful, wickedly clever… you’re all of those things. You’re the most compelling woman I’ve ever known. Since I met you, I haven’t been able to look away….” He swallowed, and Sansa watched the motion of his throat, transfixed. She felt his fingers clench in her hair, a pull that delighted her. “And you are _so_ fucking beautiful. But you know that. You must know all that.”

“Tell me something I don’t know, then.” Her voice was hoarse, as if she hadn’t used it in days.

“I… I—”

“Last call, folks!”

Brienne’s words, although they weren’t particularly loud, boomed in Sansa’s ear, as did the following slap of the dishrag against the bar counter. Sansa glared at her, for once in her life resenting the appearance of her best friend.

“Anything you want, Sansa, seriously.”

“I’m fine, Bri,” Sansa huffed, willing Brienne silently to go away—could she seriously not see the magnitude of what she’d interrupted?

But it _was_ interrupted, thoroughly so—Jon’s hand had fallen away from her face, although they still held hands on the bar counter. A point of contact that Brienne seemed completely oblivious to.

“I think I’ll call it a night,” she said, glancing from underneath her lashes at Jon to gauge his reaction.

“Can I walk you home?”

Sansa was astounded at the fluttering in her stomach at his words, at the way her mouth twitched into a smile.

“Yes.”

* * *

The walk was short and uneventful, but Sansa supposed she had enough adventure for one day. Considering how long she’s been awake and how emotionally heightened most of that time was, she wouldn’t be surprised if she knocked out for a solid two days.

“Get some rest, Sansa,” Jon said as they stopped at her door, as if he read her mind.

“I plan on it.”

“If you need anything… if Joffrey bothers you…”

“I’ll call. I promise.”

Jon glowered, the unpleasant mention of Joffrey apparently maintaining a bit of a hold on him for a moment. “Keep your phone close and keep it charged. Since he was acting the way he was…” He shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t want to scare you.”

“No, it’s good. I’ll be careful. Better safe than sorry.”

“Right.”

She shifted on her feet in the pause that followed, her keys in her hand but unwilling to insert them in the knob and turn it and end the night.

Not yet.

“So… Halloween’s on a Saturday this year.”

“Yes, it is.”

“It’s in ten days.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Yes, it is.”

“I’m not working, and I’m _really_ happy about it. Halloween’s the worst night of the year to be an ER nurse.”

“I can imagine.”

“Brienne’s throwing a costume party.”

“Cool.” He smiled a bit. “Brienne doesn’t seem like the party throwing type…”

“No, but Margaery is.”

“Ah,” he said, understanding. Jon had met Brienne’s girlfriend quite a few times at the bar. Sansa was excited—one of Margaery’s strongest skill sets was that of hostess. She threw the _best_ parties. 

“It should be great. I’m going. Obviously. I was wondering…” She summoned the bravery from somewhere deep within. “If you wanted to come with me?”

Jon’s eyes softened yet intensified at the same time. How did he manage to do that?

“I would love to.”

This time, when her mouth ached to move into a smile, she let it. She let the smile take over, so wide it hurt her face.

“You’re a looker, Sansa Stark, but I have to say you look _really_ pretty like that.” Jon cocked his head to the side. “Happy.”

The words found a home in her chest and melted. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a sweetheart, Jon Snow?”

“I wouldn’t wanna hear it from anyone else.”

That ridiculously wide smile wasn’t going anywhere. She felt like she was walking on air as she reluctantly took a few backwards steps into her foyer.

“Goodnight, Jon.”

“Goodnight… Sansa.”

Slowly she closed the door behind her; it was the last thing she wanted to do, despite having been awake for something like thirty hours now. She should have been running for her bed. Instead she wanted to run the other way, out the door, to wherever Jon Snow was heading.

Dazed, she touched her fingertips to her smiling mouth.

_Best. Night. Ever._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so fluffy and sweet my teeth hurt AHHH


	3. dressed to kill

Ten days. Ten days had never felt so unending, so _fucking_ long.

Every hour passed by excruciatingly slow in his classroom. It was usually his students who stared at the clock on the wall, but now Jon counted every minute along with them. He was glued to his phone, opening his messages again and again—a futile act. He and Sansa had never texted much, preferring to keep their conversations to the long nights they’d spend at the bar.

So Jon went to the bar a few times, leather folder stuffed with papers to be graded tucked under his arm, same as always. But Sansa wasn’t there. Each time Brienne would smirk at him as soon as she saw him and say, “She’s not coming tonight.”

Jon would shrug. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Just here to work.” He’d hold up his papers as proof.

“Sure, Jon.”

As Halloween drew closer the bar transformed to an appropriately ghoulish place, festively decorated with spiderwebs and carved pumpkins. On Thursday it was so busy that Jon couldn’t even pretend to be doing his work anymore, struggling to find room on the bar to spread his papers. He was jostled and pushed by clamoring customers. He quickly gave up the ruse; besides, he didn’t want to hurt Brienne’s business by taking up a prime seat for several hours on such a busy night.

It was then that he found her— or, she found him. A cloud of autumn leaves and citrus.

“Boo.”

His heart pounded, but not from fear. The ends of her hair brushed his forearm, the barest of contact, yet he felt goosebumps rising there. He spun around on his barstool to face her, grinning.

Sansa looked radiant; fresh faced, in a burgundy sweater and tight jeans. Her hair shone fire-red in the warm glow of the lanterns. She stepped into the space between his open legs, causing Jon’s breath to hitch.

“A little bird told me you’ve been stopping by the bar almost every night.”

“That little bird named Brienne?”

“Didn’t catch her name.”

“Well, you know…” He held up the folder. “Just working.”

Sansa quirked a brow. “Really?”

“Okay, it’s been hard to get any work done.”

“Yeah… why would anyone come here to work?” She leaned in even closer to be heard over the music; or so Jon told himself. He could hear her fine before. “It’s not exactly conducive to productivity.”

“It’s not so bad…” He lifted one hand from his knee and let it graze over her back, gently. He felt her stiffen, then lean in closer. “On weeknights it’s usually pretty empty, as you know.”

“If I had to focus I’d probably go to a café or something. With some big headphones. Why would you come _here_ to work?”

Jon breathed out—mere inches from him, Sansa’s eyelids fluttered.

“You know why.”

Her face was mere inches away from his own; Jon saw her pupils dilate, saw her lips part. The hand that was skimming over her back moved to span her waist, the other joining it so that he held her in his hands.

She leaned in further, erasing the few inches separating them and the breath froze in his chest. He felt the cold tip of her nose on his cheek, then felt her soft lips drag down to his neck.

“That’s the same reason I came.” Her words were hot on his skin. “And not just tonight.”

_Oh, fuck._

She pressed herself more firmly against him—her breasts against his chest, her hips between his legs. _Fuck._ His cock stiffened, and he felt delirious and dizzy and _desire—_

Yet a rational part of his brain knew he had to pump the breaks. No matter how long he’s been in love with her, no matter how long he’s wanted her, no matter the things she was saying now—she had _just_ broken up with her boyfriend. Maybe she wasn’t ready. Maybe she was lonely. Maybe she wasn’t aware of the effect she had on him. He didn’t want to, _couldn’t_ ruin it, before it even had a chance to begin it.

“I’d look forward to seeing you,” she whispered in a dropped voice that Jon felt in his stomach. “I felt so bad about it.”

“Because…” He gasped as he felt her hand skim his denim clad thigh. “Cuz you’re a good person. But…”

He lost focus as her hand trailed towards the juncture of his legs, so close to where he desperately needed her.

She pulled back an inch so he could see those blue eyes blinking innocently up at him. “But what?”

He swallowed. “You don’t need to feel bad anymore. Don’t ever feel that way. Not about this.”

“Yeah?”

He curled his hands tightly over her waist, squeezing her flesh, just for a moment, enough to make her eyes blow open and a sweet little whimper escape her lips.

“I want to make you feel _good.”_

She bit her lip, her eyes melting with need. _“Jon…”_

He couldn’t wait a second longer. He weaved one hand through her hair and curled the other around her body to hold her to him, bringing her mouth to his.

* * *

_I want to make you feel good._

Those words delivered in his rough, deep voice went right to her core, and she had a moment to think with no small amount of panic _oh god I want him_ before he was holding her properly, his arms tight around her body and—and— they were kissing.

Sansa’s eyelids fluttered shut as she felt his warm, soft lips on hers, as he curved them to her as if he’d curve his whole world to fit the shape of her. She responded in kind, sucking his bottom lip into her mouth, pulling the most delicious groan from him.

“Sansa…”

She swallowed her own name as her hands found their way into the soft, soft locks of hair at the nape of his neck.

They deepened the kiss together—Jon’s tongue parting the seam of her mouth, Sansa angling her head to be devoured. They shuddered in each other’s arms, then clung to each other even tighter. He tasted like cinnamon and bourbon, like something warm she’d lost when the little girl with her head in the clouds grew up, something that only now found its way home again.

* * *

She tasted like caramel, so sweet she’d more than satisfy every craving. But Jon didn’t think he’d ever be satisfied. He went on licking into her mouth, tasting and tasting, never wanting it to end—

_“Get a room!”_

Dazed, he blinked back into existence, realizing he was in a bar, realizing the jeers and laughs were for him—or _at_ him. And Sansa. Reluctantly he pulled back to examine Sansa’s face, and while she looked flushed it didn’t seem to be from embarrassment.

“You okay?” he murmured, his hands leaving her waist to cradle her face.

“I’m more than okay, Jon Snow.”

His thumb traced her bottom lip. She opened her mouth, slightly, the movement entrancing.

_“Hey! Lovebirds!”_

“Fucking pricks,” Jon muttered, but his eyes never strayed from Sansa, from her eyes like the sky at dusk or the sharp curve of her cheekbone or the rosy lip under his thumb.

“Don’t worry about them,” she whispered. “They’re not bothering me.”

Still. Despite her reassurance, Jon wanted everything to be perfect for her, and while their kiss had _felt_ perfect in the moment he realized now that this may be beneath what Sansa wanted. He doubted she’d wanted their first kiss to be at the bar they’d whittled time away in on a million average nights—as friends, and friends only. The place where she’d felt guilt for her feelings towards him, a thing she’d _just_ confessed to him—and he’d gone ahead and kissed her right after.

No, this couldn’t be what she wanted—and it was definitely beneath what she deserved.

“What?” Her eyes were searching.

Jon decided to speak his mind. “Should I not have done that here? Now?”

“I wanted it to be here.” Sansa bit her lip, glanced up at him shyly from underneath her lashes. “It’s special here.”

Jon felt his mouth curl into a smile. She was right. More right than she’d ever know.

* * *

Because of her job, Sansa never got to celebrate Halloween, so this year she fully intended to take advantage. She spent hours shopping with her fine entourage—the eager and ever-fashionable Margaery, Alys and Lyanna— the latter dragged by her girlfriend who refused to dress up in their bare-minimum vampire costumes again— and her reluctant teenage sister, Arya, who equated shopping with torture.

“Everyone just dresses as something sexy,” Arya had said when attempting to dissuade her from the shopping trip. “Just go as a sexy nurse or something.”

“I’m _actually_ a nurse, Arya.”

“So?”

Ultimately Arya had failed in her dissuasion attempts, and the five were in danger of spending the entire afternoon in the fitting room as costume after costume failed to impress Sansa.

It wasn’t just that she never got to celebrate Halloween. It was that this year, she would get to celebrate with Jon.

“Arya!” Sansa snapped when she had to ask her sister what she thought of her pirate costume three times before she looked up from her phone. “I brought you so you could help me.”

“You know I hate shopping!”

“You just have to sit there and tell me your opinions.”

_“Why?”_

“Because you’re a kid, Arya, so you can tell me about what’s on trend or whatever!”

“I’m _not_ a kid!”

“Honey…” Margaery looked horrified as she handed her a stack of new costumes to try on, and Sansa thought it was because of her costume until she said, “Don’t talk like that, we’re not _old._ I am _not_ gonna let you make me feel old.”

Sansa rolled her eyes and ducked back into the fitting room to try on another round of costumes.

In the end, her efforts were worth it.

On the night of the party, Sansa stood in front of the mirror as she dabbed on a bit of perfume behind her ears. She was dressed and made up, the final touches in place. Sansa examined her image and felt the pleased, proud calm of total satisfaction. 

It was Halloween night, and she was dressed to kill.


	4. solid and safe

The front steps were lavishly decorated in what seemed like dozens of lit jack’o’lanterns. When Margaery opened the front door, Jon had barely raised his hand to greet her when she jumped onto him, wrapping him in a tight hug.

 _“Jon!_ I’m so happy you came!”

Jon was a bit surprised at the warm, overly enthusiastic welcome—he and Margaery had a nice enough but distant relationship. He supposed the recent development with Sansa was the reason for this change, and a moment later she proved him right.

“I’m your number one fan right now. I mean, you _punched_ Joffrey. I feel like I need to thank you.”

“I didn’t punch him,” Jon corrected, but Margaery waved a hand dismissively.

“Oh well. I still like you.”

“Thanks.”

She stepped back into the open doorway, which cast her in a red glow that was spilling out from the house. Jon could hear a few discordant notes of music, laughter, and the thrum of conversation; a party in full swing.

Margaery was eyeing him. “You look hot.”

“Thanks. You look great.” Margaery was in what looked like a sexy interpretation of a Harry Potter costume, a short black robe that barely reached mid-thigh cinched tight with a belt and a wand in her grip. Jon noticed the realistic looking black tattoo on her forearm. 

“Death Eater?”

She nodded. “Bri is Lucius Malfoy, it works so well with her hair. She looks _amazing_. You’re not prone to seizures, are you? Sensitive to strobe lights?”

When Jon shook his head in response, Margaery nodded, satisfied, and grabbed his arm to draw him into her red world.

Brienne’s and Margaery’s townhouse was, at first glance, some sort of homage to Satan. There were no cheesy pumpkins or cardboard cutouts, but realistic skulls mounted, twisted arrays of bones draped across the ceiling in a horrible echo of a canopy, and bloodied masks hanging on the walls. Colored bulbs bathed everything in a heavy red glow. The effect was enthralling.

“She’s upstairs.”

Jon jumped; he recognized Brienne’s voice even if he didn’t recognize her at first. He started up the steps and paused halfway through, arrested by the vision at the top.

Sansa was in a skintight, gleaming leotard with a high cut of the legs and a plunging neckline. Her impossibly long legs were bare yet glittering. Her hair gleamed too, loose waves of copper behind a sporty headband. A gold medal swung between her breasts as she descended the steps. Jon watched as if in a trance, not realizing his mouth was open until she stood in front of him, smirking.

“GLOW?” His mouth felt too dry to speak even just that one word. Sansa and those curves and those _legs_ were standing in front of him, and he suddenly needed a drink.

“You remembered.” Her smile softened. Of course he remembered Sansa’s love of the Netflix series which had started a brief obsession with female wrestling. “Most people have been saying gymnast—and I will admit, it was a gymnast costume,” she winked. “Are you— _Jon…”_

Her hands fiddled with the hat on his head, then she splayed her hands on the leather stretched across his chest. It was distracting. “Are you Van Helsing?”

“Sans crossbow,” he smiled, and she squealed in delight and threw her arms around him. Jon responded in kind, delighted and agonized to finally touch her.

“That’s so sweet of you,” she mumbled against his neck. “You remembered how much I love that movie.”

“Of course.” The casual words were not at all indicative of how triumphant he felt that the hours of thought he’d placed into his costume had paid off. He’d wanted nothing more than this; to please Sansa.

“You look hot.” Her eyes dropped as she ran them over his form slowly. “Hotter than Hugh Jackman.”

“You too,” he smirked. “Way hotter.”

She giggled, and Jon leaned in to grasp the flesh just below the small of her back. She pressed herself closer to him.

“You look good enough to eat,” he whispered in her hair. 

After a moment that may have been a few seconds or an hour—time was suspended for Jon when he held Sansa in his arms—she pulled away. “Come on, _Mr. Helsing._ Let’s get you a drink.”

* * *

Sansa didn’t think she could love Halloween any more than she already did. Of course, she’d never spent Halloween with Jon Snow before.

At first she’d been nervous—just for a moment, when she noticed him at the bottom of the steps just as she started to descend. She saw his eyes glittering even in the red light and shadows, saw them beholding her like there was nobody else around them. _It’s like a movie._ Her nerves had evaporated entirely by the time she reached him.

Now she felt light and floaty, drunk on laughter and kisses and the blood-red punch. Every time she caught a glimpse of the buckles on his waistcoat, the long leather coat, or his loose curls—so perfect for the look— she couldn’t help but smile. They engaged with the others in the house, talking and even playing a couple drinking games, but they spent most of their time in one dark corner or the next, wrapped around each other, one of her legs hitched around his as he licked into her mouth.

“You taste like your hair,” he mumbled against her jaw, startling a laugh out of her.

“Jon! What?!”

“Oranges,” he explained, smiling too. “Lemon.”

“It’s the punch,” she giggled. “You taste like it too.”

“I don’t wanna go,” he muttered.

“It’ll be quick, _so_ quick, and you’ll be back soon,” she whispered soothingly. Jon had been delaying joining the line for the bathroom despite needing to use it for the last half hour.

He finally relented, giving her a sad little wave as they parted that made her giggle. As she returned the main floor, she walked to the group gathered around the TV—it was draped in a thick black blanket that obscured its form, but Sansa had spent enough time at the apartment to recognize it— she felt a sharp tug on her arm.

She whirled. A man in a Scream mask stood behind her. His hand still squeezed her forearm, not relaxing even as she tried to pull herself free of his grip. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“What the hell’re _you_ doing, Sansa.”

Her stomach sank. Joffrey. She couldn’t see his face, but she’d recognize that voice anywhere.

“You shouldn’t be here. Brienne and Marge didn’t invite you.”

“You sure about that?”

She rolled her eyes. “Stop trying to trick me, Joffrey. I’m done with your—with your shit.”

She knew it was a bit old fashioned of her, but she rarely cursed, an ingrained habit from her mother’s rearing she’d never been able to shake.

“Yeah, I see you’re done with me. I been watching you all night.”

Despite the fact that she _knew_ she’d done nothing wrong, she felt fear and guilt twist in her stomach. She fought against it. “I’m not doing anything wrong. _You_ are. You weren’t invited to this party, and it’s a private party. You need to go.”

His grip on her arm tightened. “I _knew_ you were fucking him, I knew it—”

“Let go of me!”

Her distress had managed to attract attention. Several costumed people Sansa was too distraught to recognize swarmed them, trying to pull Joffrey away from her. But Joffrey held on with a death grip. Tears filled her eyes as she desperately tried to shake him off. 

“Sansa!”

The voice was a lifeline. _“Jon!”_

He shoved through the mass of bodies around her, suddenly standing beside her with wild eyes. “Sansa—what—”

His eyes landed on Joffrey’s grip on her arm. She practically saw his jaw click. In a flash he’d pried Joffrey from her, twisting the hand that gripped her behind his back in a way that made Joffrey cry out.

“You and me, _outside,”_ Jon hissed.

“It’s Joffrey,” Sansa told him.

Jon’s eyes flashed. “I’ll be right back, Sansa. I’ll take care of this.”

He shoved Joffrey towards the door. People scattered, leaving a wide berth for them. After a moment of indecision, Sansa acted on instinct, following after them.

They were out of the townhouse when Jon noticed her behind them. “Sansa… sweetheart, go back inside.”

“I’m fine. You’ll protect me.” She knew it to be true; she trusted Jon’s desire and ability to keep her safe implicitly. “I want to see this.”

“Alright,” he said quietly. He let go of Joffrey. As soon as Joffrey was free, he charged Jon with loud yell. But Jon dodged him by jumping to the side. Jon raised his arm, and Sansa heard a sickening crunch. He’d punched Joffrey in the face.

 _“Fuck!”_ The mask was now dented, barely hanging onto Joffrey’s face.

“Don’t ever touch her again.” It was a menacing growl, sending a shiver down Sansa’s back. “I told you you’d regret it.”

“You broke my nose! For that _bitch—”_

The rest of Joffrey’s words were lost as Jon charged him, knocking him to the ground. He straddled his chest and punched him once, twice, again—

“Jon!”

She tentatively approached him, then laid a hand on his shoulder. He stilled completely.

“You’re better than him,” she whispered.

Jon turned his head to look at her. His eyes were narrow and feral with anger, like an animal’s.

But then he nodded, rising in one fluid motion.

His body curved towards her, his eyes finally releasing Joffrey. Sansa wrapped her hands around his arm. “Jon…”

“Yeah.”

“I want to say something to him.”

After a moment, Jon nodded. He ducked and pulled Joffrey to his feet, ignoring his cries, and stood behind Joffrey to hold his arms behind his back. The precautions made Sansa’s heart melt.

Tentatively, she took a few steps until she was standing in front of Joffrey. She reached up to pull the ruined, bloodied mask off. She needed to look him in the eye while she said this.

“I never cheated on you, Joffrey.” It was difficult to look at him, with the broken skin and the blood covering his chin. But she did it. “ _You_ cheated on me. _You_ messed this up, accept it. And I should have dumped you way before I did.”

“Sansa…”

“I don’t want to hear it. _Don’t_ say my name.” She held up a hand, trying to control her shaking. “You think you can touch a woman like that? Screw you. You need help.”

“Or a cell,” Jon muttered darkly.

“And I _will_ put you in one, I promise you, if you ever come near me again. I will charge you with assault and stalking and whatever the fuck else I can. I’m serious, Joffrey… _leave me alone.”_

Her breath came quick; she realized her hands were balled into fists at her side. She gave Jon a small smile. “I’m good now.”

As she watched Joffrey limp down the street, Jon solid and strong by her side, she had a feeling that statement would hold true for a while.


	5. dilated with desire

Jon flinched as the ice pack came into contact with the red, broken skin of his knuckles; he much preferred the feel of Sansa’s touch.

“Hold still…”

He obeyed, letting Sansa tend to his hand. After the incident with Joffrey—his gaze blurred with anger just thinking about it—he and Sansa had gone in to apologize and say goodbye to the hostesses. Jon had insisted to Sansa over and over that he was fine to stay—he didn’t want her to have to leave the party early. But she insisted on taking him to her apartment and tending to his hands.

Now he was sitting on her sofa with the woman herself between his legs, seated on the ground as she cradled his hand between hers.

She frowned at it. “I wish you hadn’t hurt yourself.”

Jon shrugged. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“Jon…”

“Hey.” With his other hand he titled her chin up to look at him. “I’d do it again and again if you wanted. If he dares to come near you again.”

She shook her head and sighed. “I can’t believe he came.”

“Me too,” Jon muttered, trying to ignore the dark thoughts attempting to take over.

“It was scary.”

The slight tremble that went through her hands shook him. “I couldn’t tell. You were brave.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Jon.”

“There’s nothing to be scared of, when I’m with you,” Jon reassured her. “I won’t let him hurt you, Sansa.”

“I know.” The conviction in her voice made his chest warm. He was glad she considered him that man in her life, the one who would protect her.

In an instant her eyes were different—shifting, now full of heat as they beheld him. Jon sucked in a breath through his teeth. _Don’t imagine things. Don’t push her._

“I feel bad that we left the party early,” he said, not for the first time. He’s been apologizing since she called the Uber, feeling guilty for abrupt end of her first Halloween party in years. “We could have stayed.”

“I wanted to bring you back here. I wanted…” She turned her gaze downwards, hiding her eyes from him. A blush rose on her cheeks.

“You wanted?” he rasped. 

Her answer was a lunge, a crash of her mouth against his. Jon responded in kind, barely registering the ice pack sliding off his hand or the resounding pain shooting through his knuckles as he fisted that hand in her hair, pulling her up and up and _closer_ until she was straddling his lap. He bucked up into her, an unconscious motion, a _need,_ and oh that little leotard would surely be the death of him. 

She was shuddering in his arms, moaning into his mouth. _“Jon…”_

“Yes, baby,” he murmured, the words swallowed by her mouth. “Say my name.”

 _“Jon,_ I want, I want…”

He released her hot, citrus mouth to lick a stripe up her cheek. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you,” she whispered in the space between his ear and his jaw, as if she could not bear to look at him as she confessed this, and Jon felt himself grow hard. “I want you to fill me up.”

It was _torture,_ those words branded to his skin.

Her hands moved, painting a heated trail he was acutely aware of. Down his chest to his hip, to the place where his shirt disappeared into the band of his pants. There she trailed her fingertips with feather-light pressure, making him _ache,_ and he retaliated whip quick—grasping the flesh of her ass where the leotard ended. He wanted it _off._

Sansa pulled back then, just enough so he could see her face; lips kiss-swollen and ravaged, eyes heavily lidded and dilated with desire, nearly black. He imagined he looked the same.

* * *

Jon was hard and hot beneath her, so close and yet she wanted to be closer. She looked at him, taking in his eyes, hot as coal, ravaging her just by looking. His hat had been knocked off and his hair hung wildly mussed around his face—had she done that?—she wanted to giggle at herself, at her shameless behavior. She wanted to run her hands through it and see if it was as soft as it looked.

His hands were trailing up her arms now, up and down and back up, drawing circles on her shoulders, at the straps that covered them. He asked a question with his eyes and Sansa answered with a nod, biting her lip.

Quickly, _so_ quickly, the straps were off her shoulders, the suit dragged down to her waist, her breasts bared to the surprisingly cool air. But only for a moment—he cupped her breasts, enveloping them entirely with his hands, and were those hands always so big and warm and deliciously rough?

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, before kissing her again, and Sansa gasped into his mouth when his thumbs tweaked her nipples, which had gone near-painfully hard.

He kissed a path down her neck, bathing her collarbone with his tongue, before licking the swell of her breast in a way that made her moan.

Jon chuckled, as if he understood her plea for more and insisted on denying her just that. _Tease, wicked tease—_ he focused his mouth on the swells of her breasts, his hands kneading the undersides much too softly. She whimpered, then rubbed herself against him— she felt his clothed hard length against her bare thigh, against the tiny strip of fabric that covered her cunt, and oh how she wanted nothing between them. He groaned, his eyes flashing darkly as they met hers.

He lowered his head and Sansa whimpered, _finally,_ but then he blew air on her nipples, and she nearly shrieked. Hot and cold, wet but not, good but not enough, _almost_ —it was too much.

“Jon! Please—”

He stole her words by taking her nipple into the heat of his mouth, _oh that feels so—_

* * *

It was hard, near impossible, to go slow—to feel her leotard gathered up at her waist and not tear it all the way off her, not to bare her cunt to him, not to pull it up to his mouth for a taste, not to jerk down his fly and rock into her, to fuck her hard and fast until he was seeing white.

But a year of yearning stayed his hands and his mouth and his cock. A year of wanting to touch her, to make her feel everything, to make her feel _good,_ like she deserved to feel.

It shouldn’t have been possible for the silky smooth skin of her breast and the pebbled texture of her nipple to taste so good in his mouth, to taste like _anything,_ but he had wanted this for so long and every lick of her was a burst of sweetness in his mouth.

The way she moved over him drove him insane; it was torture for his cock, rock hard and straining against his pants. He let go of one of her breasts, delighting in her little whine of complaint, to grab her ass and hold her still, make her stop moving like that—only his fingers dug into the supple flesh, holding her more firmly against him, directing her movements and _oh_ it felt so good, he thought wildly, if she kept going like that he’d cum in his pants like a teenager—

* * *

Every flick of his tongue on her nipple made her throb, made Sansa clutch him closer. She moved against him, seeking relief for the way she ached in her core, and he responded in kind, thrusting up into her and making them them both moan, equal parts pleasure and frustration.

Seized by something not unlike insanity, Sansa took his face in both of her hands, pulling him up from her breasts to kiss him thoroughly.

“Jon,” she whispered against his mouth. “I want you.”

His eyes were mere slits, heavy as they looked at her, his tongue poking out to wet his lips. Sansa wanted it back in her mouth.

“You sure, sweetheart?”

The words warmed her heart, and she pressed herself closer to him. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“I—I wanted to do it right for you…” He trailed off, as if forgetting his argument, as his hands returned to cupping her breasts and his mouth suckled a path up her neck. “I didn’t even take you on a date yet,” he murmured against her jaw.

“That’s sweet, but…” Her words burst into a gasp as he pinched her nipple. “I know you, Jon. I trust you. You won’t take advantage.”

He pulled back for a second to look at her before saying, with utter conviction, “Never.”

“We’ll have plenty of time for dates…”

“So much time,” he agreed, a pitiful mumble as he sucked a bloom on her collarbone. It hurt, stinging in the best way, pain mixed with pleasure that shot straight to her cunt.

Her hand fisted in his hair. “Don’t stop,” she gasped.

“I won’t,” he vowed, the promise in his voice sending a thrill down her body. “Because I want you. Now.”

In one swift movement he was standing and she was floating in the air, his strong arms holding her up against his body. Her shriek of surprise turned into giggles as she verbally directed him to the bedroom, a path that took much too long as he continually stopped to hold her against the wall and roll his hips into her, lick into her mouth.

But then—after seconds, after eons— they were in her bedroom and she was being gently lowered to the bed. Jon stayed on top of her for a minute, his weight a welcome security above her.

All too quickly, he pulled away. His hands fisted in the leotard still at her waist, and he glanced up at her—once more asking permission, which Sansa granted with an eager nod—and dragged it down, down until she was naked. Then he stood at the foot of the bed, the leotard forgotten in his loose grip as he looked at her. Only a few streaks of moonlight illuminated the room, leaving near everything in shadow, yet Sansa could see his eyes watching her, dark chasms of want.

* * *

She was a vision in the moonlight, stretched out on her bed like a feast. Nipples hard and pink and ravaged by his mouth. The softness of her belly and thighs, the flare of her hips. The tantalizing strip of dark hair above her slit. She bit her lip as she stared back at him.

“You’re stunning.” Words finally formed in his suddenly dry mouth. “You’re so beautiful, Sansa.”

“I think you are too,” she whispered, crawling to the foot of the bed and there slowly rising to her her knees. Her hands settled on his chest, pulling his vest open. “Show me.”

In no time at all he was as naked as she. A groan escaped him when his cock finally sprung free, when Sansa’s wide eyes honed in on it and her little pink tongue darted out to wet her lip. He grasped her chin between his fingers, leaning forward to kiss her, near-shivering as he felt the soft press of her breasts on his chest. She trailed a hand down his side, and that was it—too much, and he pushed her back with a growl, and they were both tumbling onto the bed.

She was softness beneath him, every inch of her, from the crown of her head to her toes. He wanted to feel every bit of her against every bit of him, but that required thought and planning and he’d reduced to a creature of instinct, touching and licking and kissing blindly—her face, her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, her hips, her neck again. He was acutely aware of his cock pressing into her belly, smearing her soft skin with precum that was already leaking from him.

He bit his lip as his hand trailed down to where he longed to touch. Sansa’s eyes blew open as she registered his intention. She shivered beneath him as he grew closer, her legs quaking against him.

He groaned when he finally swiped a finger through her folds. _“Fuck._ You’re so wet for me.”

He dipped a finger into her, unable to resist the pull of silk and heat and wetness, a hiss slipping through his teeth at how tight she was, his mouth returning to hers to swallow her moans.

* * *

Jon was everywhere, his hands and his mouth, palming and kissing her like he was determined to mark every part of her with his touch. She felt his cock hot and hard against her stomach, then lower, poking her thigh as he swiped an agonizingly slow finger over her pussy.

Then he was inside her, with just a finger it seemed yet it felt so satisfying, so frustrating as he pumped it in and out of her. Even when he crawled up her body to kiss her he didn’t stop finger fucking her. She couldn’t kiss him right, she couldn’t focus, it felt too good, and there was a pleasure building, an ache intensifying.

He was at her ear, his words a burst of heat. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited to have you like this. I’m going to make it last. I’m going to make it so, _so_ good for you.”

“It is, it is,” she was blabbering, begging. She needed _more._ “Please… give it to me.”

He shuddered at her words, his entire frame shaking above her, his fingers pounding into her more ruthlessly now—and yes, he’d added another finger or two, she was sure of it, because she felt the delicious stretch and _oh_ she was close.

“I’ll give you what you want,” he growled in a way that was positively animal, in a way that made her cunt throb. “But first, I want to taste you.”

“Oranges,” she smiled against his mouth, dizzy, delirious.

“No.” His fingers did _something_ inside her, a glorious stretch that threw her head back. “I want to see what you taste like _here.”_

* * *

He was sliding down her body and pushing her legs apart before she could respond, drawn by the consuming need to taste her wetness. She was close, her walls tightening around the three fingers inside her, and damn if she wasn’t going to cum in his mouth.

Her pussy was pretty and pink and perfect because it was _Sansa,_ the core of her, fuck it was perfect because he would spend every day worshipping it with his mouth and his cock if she’d let him. He leaned in, inhaling the scent of her, then blew just as he did on her breasts. Her thighs quaked around his head, trying to press closed but he raised his hands to hold them apart.

He lunged forward, unable to wait a second later even if it was to tease her, needing to taste her on his tongue. He licked her open with a deep groan.

_“Ohhhhhh—”_

Almost grinning, Jon licked several long swipes across the length of her before he opened his mouth over her pussy. He sucked at her slippery folds, then at her lips, before licking her again.

His name was a series of broken cries from her lips. He wanted to fuck her slow with his tongue, he wanted to eat her pussy for an hour until she was begging for release. But he didn’t have that restraint right now, not when he could feel her hole clenching, not when he was rutting against the bed uselessly for even the slightest relief.

So he fucked her with his fingers again, her back arching off the bed when he did so that the rhythm of his mouth was thrown off and he had a moment to look at her, at her head thrown back and her eyes squeezed shut, at her open mouth, at the way her breasts heaved with her breath.

“Can you come for me, baby?” He returned his tongue to her, then hovered over her clit. “Can you come in my mouth?”

* * *

He was _maddening—_ Jon Jon Jon Jon _Jon—_ and a dim, faraway part of her brain registered she was saying his name out loud, in low pitiful whimpers that sounded nothing like her voice.

His lips and his clever tongue seemed to visit every crevice of her except where she wanted him most, at the very top where she was throbbing, where she feared if he touched her with even the lightest pressure she’d explode.

Yet, she wanted it, she begged for it, and it was like he read her mind when he started to finally lick her there.

She arched off the bed, seeing stars, and her hands moved on their own accord to fist in his hair, to hold him to her, and he answered with a low groan that vibrated through her cunt.

 _“More,_ oh god,” she pleaded, unsure what she was asking for.

But he granted it, lashing her clit with his tongue, sucking it between his lips as the pleasure built and built until she screamed and started to scramble away, her orgasm crashing over her and leaving her too sensitive for touch. But he kept her still with one hand tightly gripping her thigh and his arm like an iron bar over her stomach, holding her down and open to him, so she could do nothing but shake her head back and forth as he licked her gently through her high. 

* * *

He was drowning in her, and there was no better way to go. But then her hands which had become fists in his hair started tugging, up, and Jon followed. She pulled him until he was crouched over her, his cock at the space between her still open legs, sliding against her slick pussy.

They both moaned at the delicious contact. Sansa’s hands in his hair brought his face to hers, and when she kissed him Jon knew she was tasting herself on his mouth, and that made him rut into her, nearly going cross eyed at the sensation of her wetness and heat against his cock.

“You still want to, baby?” he panted, knowing he’d die if she didn’t.

“So badly,” she replied, biting her lip.

Jon pushed himself up to his elbows and lined himself up, glancing at her for a moment before… before she became his, while he was already hers, so completely. After this, he’d be damned if he’d ever let her go— he would love her ultimately and completely as long as she let him. He wanted to imprint this image in his mind’s eye— _Sansa,_ cat eyes dark and wide, her hair a fan of copper on the sheets, her skin flushed pink from pleasure, one of her delicate fingers teasing her nipple, while the other braced on his shoulder, knowing what was to come.

He pushed the tip of his cock into the heat of her, and _oh fuck—_ he paused, breath sucked in through gritted teeth. She was tight, so fucking tight, even dripping as she was from the work of his fingers and his mouth.

“Fucking hell,” his mouth released a storm of hisses and curses and praises for her as he pushed himself into her inch by inch, watching her face all the while— the way her eyes stayed wide and open and focused on him, the way her mouth broke open with her pants.

Then he was suddenly buried deep inside her, and he released a low, shuddering groan, his body shaking with it. “God, you’re so—you feel so good—”

“You—too,” she panted, tilting her hips just a bit, and the slight change of angle had them both moaning, Jon’s hands fisting in the sheets while hers tightened on his shoulders. “You have to—Jon— _move—”_

He did, pulling out nearly all the way and listening to her whimper as he did. He stared at the place where they were joined, enchanted, then plunged back into her, _hard._ So hard she rocked with it, her hands leaving his shoulders to scrape against his back, clinging to him tightly, so that he had no choice but to fuck her with his chest pressed flush against hers.

Her moans were hot breaths in his ear—“Jon, oh, yes, Jon, _yes,”—_ driving him insane as his hips jerked into hers, his tongue licking her mouth and her jaw and her neck, his teeth biting her shoulder, and nothing could ever feel this good, _nothing_ could ever feel as good as this.

Wildly he dropped one hand between them, finding her clit and rubbing at her desperately—“one more, baby, one more,”— moving back and speeding up, balancing on one arm to fuck her deeper and harder, and Sansa hummed a long moan that turned into a howl, her eyes squeezing shut, her cunt squeezing his cock so he saw stars.

“Ahhhh— oh fuck that’s it baby girl, ohhhh….” He gritted his teeth against the twisting low in his belly, the _need,_ the sensation of her cunt tightening around his cock, he wanted to wait to pull out, he had to wait—”

“Jon, cum inside me, _cum with me baby,_ it’s okay—

He thrust into her so hard her words broke—again, once more into her convulsing heat and then he was cumming, so hard his vision spotted with black, fucking into her still as he came inside her.

Then he collapsed, spent. Only when she squirmed beneath him did he remember sense and barely gathered the strength to roll off of her, glancing at her as he did— and the effect of her, sweaty and well-loved, was so glorious he was somehow still taken aback by the reality of where he was—in Sansa’s bed, chosen by her, finally allowed to love her.

* * *

The night was theirs. Sansa stared at Jon lying beside her, dark hair plastered to his neck, beard still damp from her wetness and her mouth. The defined muscles of his chest gleamed with sweat, and she imagined she looked the same. Wrecked. Absolutely, deliciously wrecked. _I never want to be anything else but wrecked by him._

What seemed like mere minutes later they were curled around each other again, and she rode his lap this time, staring down at his open face, the devotion shining from his eyes, and she wasn’t sure if it was that or the delicious rub of his flesh against her that made her cum.

Or was it the way he said her name— _“Sansa,”_ voice thick with reverence and wonder. She’d never heard her name like that before.

They ordered Chinese food and fucked in the shower before it arrived, her body trapped between the shower wall and his, then ate it in her bed, giggling and making plans. Jon trailed lazy fingers up and down her heated skin as their eyes started to droop, telling her where he’d take her to breakfast, where their first date would be, whispering endearments like “lovely” and “mine” that warmed her heart as she fell to sleep.


End file.
